Thursday, February 28, 2008

What IS it with young people these days? I've got these shiftless drug-using neighbours who seem to have several teenage children hanging around the house at all times. I think most of them live there, but possibly not all.

A strong whiff of BC homegrown permeates the atmosphere around their house at certain times. My daughter and I were selling Girl Guide cookies one day and the (presumably) dad of these kids tore up in a junker car as we passed his driveway, opened the door (accompanied by a cloud of smoke and a riff of Robert Plant), staggered over to us and genially demanded four boxes of cookies, digging a stained hand into a stained pocket and breathing alcohol fumes all over me.

The kids amuse themselves by breaking into people's sheds and trying all the parked cars for unlocked doors. If they find one, they rummage through the door pockets, pilfer a few CDs and - oddly - Canadian Tire money. If there's change available, they may or may not swipe it. I suspect it was they who overturned the Postes Canada Post distribution box at the corner of the street a few months ago. At any given time you can see them scrambling over fences, slouching through people's yards on their way to the woods behind the houses, or maybe tearing along the road on a really whiney electric skateboard of some kind.

I was going to write some wry, amused observations about the youth of the world going to hell in a handbasket, but then I found this:

The world is passing through troublous times. The young people of today think of nothing but themselves. They have no reverence for parents or old age. They are impatient of all restraint. They talk as if they knew everything, and what passes for wisdom with us is foolishness with them. As for the girls, they are forward, immodest and unladylike in speech, behaviour and dress.

-Peter the Hermit, 1247 AD

And this:

The children now love luxury. They have bad manners, contempt for authority, they show disrespect to their elders... They no longer rise when elders enter the room. They contradict their parents, chatter before company, gobble up dainties at the table, cross their legs, and are tyrants over their teachers.

-Attributed to Socrates, 470-399 BC

So I guess it's not going to change anytime soon, eh? Although I'd be quite happy to have children who cross their legs, and even gobble dainties, as long as they aren't smoking crack in the woods. Y'know?

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

I dunno guys. I, like Maria von Trapp "must have done something good". I received two packages in the mail. One was from Anna in the Chicago area, and one was from Uncle Dave.

Something possessed Anna to send me an entire skein of Lorna's Laces "Helen's Lace" and to send it in a cardboard box by USPS Priority Post. Not only the beautiful yarn, but twenty quid for shipping - what on earth?! My dear Anna, I simply cannot accept all this generosity. Well, I can, but I'll have to reciprocate. I have kept your address and will put together some tokens of my gratitude as time allows.These colours are so intense - like berries and flowers.

And Dave, you rascal - not one, not two, but THREE new DVD adaptations to watch? It's too much! I don't deserve it. No, really - I don't. I am salivating over the cover of "Turn of the Screw" which is one of my all-time favourite creepy books: right up there with Girl in a Swing. I had no idea it was THAT version of TotS, and am fairly hopping with anticipation of being able to start it tomorrow. Middlemarch will follow quickly, and The Old Curiosity Shop will bring up the rear. I sent Mr. HalfSoledBoots out for popcorn and iced tea mix, so all I need is to pick up a package of Cherry Blasters on my way home from knitting tomorrow, and I am All Set.

Anna and Dave, thank you. Thank you so very much for your generosity. I could cry - in fact I feel some happy sniffles and a watery smile coming on this minute. I am undone and can only hiccough convulsively into my hanky.

Friday, February 22, 2008

I would bring the following things:-wool-needles-a needle gauge/ruler-a notepad-pencils-a laptop equipped with only a word processor-peanut butter, bread, Mini Wheats and milk, a dozen eggs and some cheddar, and a tin of tea

I would knit, sleep, walk out in the middle of a night of pouring rain, write my Novel, cry rivers of tears, and BE ALONE.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Thanks for all the good wishes, everyone - last night was.......well, pretty good for a first solo. The dancing was a bloody doddle compared to the stress of maintaining an acceptable facial expression. I kept shrieking at myself (mentally) "Smile! For the love of sheep, SMILE!!" followed in a few moments by "GOOD LORD woman this is what is called a GRIMACE, RELAX YOUR FACE!"

So basically I spent four and a half minutes alternating between a Scantily-Clad Undertaker and Maniac Stepford Harem Girl.

But the dance itself was flawless. I wowed them with my swirling veil and my skilled rhythmic zilling. No photos, I'm afraid - it was all I could do to get the assistant to figure out how to put my CD on, never mind actually work my video camera. But I'll be dancing with my troupe next weekend (on TV this time) so I may record that for your viewing pleasure.

Postes Canada Post came by the other day, and dropped off a V-E-R-Y interesting package. Here it is.

Lest you missed it, let me draw your attention to the return address:

Oh Em Gee!! Oh Em Gee!!

Here's where I say a huge THANK YOU to Mairi Macleod for writing "Value: 25 GBP" on the customs form, instead of "Value: 115 GBP", resulting in my having to pay $7.43 duty instead of $20.

And if you want to know how much $240 gets you at Virtual Yarns, take a gander.

It doesn't look like much, but.......well okay, actually it's not much. But hey - this is some quality wool. And all this wool PLUS a couple of hundred hours of my time EQUALS a pretty wrap! So if I paid a dollar an hour to knit this I am TOTALLY WINNING! Basically it's costing me nothing! Yay!

Dear Mr. Buhler: thank you for all the time you spent teaching me remedial math. I'm sure you're happy with how it all turned out. Affectionately, Shannon

I'll be swatching this baby as soon as I get some WIPs out of the way. I have promised myself to finish off the Log Cabin Blanket and the Marina Piccola socks before I start Rheingold. (I'm not talking to the lace right now, by the way. I have threatened to send her to my riding-crop-owning friend* for a bit of spankin' if she doesn't start behaving soon. So far she has responded to that just as she responded to my tears and cajoling - with stony silence. We'll see how stony she is WHEN SHE'S GOT A FEW RED WELTS ON HER BEHIND, YES YOU HEARD ME BEYOTCH, YOUR TIME IS A'COMIN.)

On that happy note, I'll bid you all a fond adieu. I'll be back tomorrow (or possibly Friday) with another addition to my ongoing meme.

* I'm sure you're all interested to find out which of my friends owns a riding crop (although I'm betting it's more than just one) but I will be coy about identifying her....though she should feel free to identify herself, should she wish it.

Monday, February 18, 2008

My Uncle Dave (find him in the sidebar under Rellies - he's "Actively Avuncular") tagged me to do this "nearest book" thing where you find the closest book, turn to page 123, and post the fifth through eighth sentences. I'm going to do this, as ever, my way.

Nearest Book of Any Description - Charlotte's Web"A rat can creep out late at night and have a feast. In the horse barn you will find oats that the trotters and pacers have spilled. In the trampled grass of the infield you will find old discarded lunch boxes containing the foul remains of peanut butter sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, cracker crumbs, bits of doughnuts, and particles of cheese. In the hard-packed dirt of the midway, after the glaring lights are out and the people have gone home to bed, you will find a veritable treasure of popcorn fragments, frozen custard dribblings, candied apples abandoned by tired children, sugar fluff crystals, salted almonds, popsicles, partially gnawed ice cream cones, and the wooden sticks of lollypops."

Another way of representing the differences in the social environment between the new world and Europe is to compare how many young people were participating in life-cycle service. Although it was common in eighteenth-century Europe, historians have noted that the tradition of young people leaving home to work for a succession of employers in their teenage years generally declined in the modern era. Hajnal and Berkner both note the prevalence of young servants in western European populations and suggest that between 30 and 40 per cent of males and females at ages 15 to 19 were servants in the eighteenth century. Laslett and Kussmaul have stressed its importance in eighteenth-century England as well.

Who's bored?

Nearest Book Belonging to ME: The PenelopiadI had a whole run of dreams that night, dreams that have not been recorded, for I never told them to a living soul. In one, Odysseus was having his head bashed in and his brains eaten by the Cyclops; in another, he was leaping into the water from his ship and swiming towards the Sirens, who were singing with ravishing sweetness, just like my maids, but were already stretching out their birds' claws to tear him apart; in yet another, he was making love with a beautiful goddess, and enjoying it very much. Then the goddess turned into Helen; she was looking at me over the bare shoulder of my husband with a malicious little smirk. This last was such a nightmare that it woke me up, and I prayed that it was a false dream sent from the cave of Morpheus through the gate of ivory, not a true one sent through the gate of horn.

Hm. Good one Maggie.

Nearest Book I'm Actually READING: The Odyssey of HomerThese things the famous singer sang for them, but Odysseus, taking in his ponderous hands the great mantle dyed in sea-purple, drew it over his head and veiled his fine features, shamed for tears running down his face before the Phaiakians; and every time the divine singer would pause in his singing, he would take the mantle away from his head, and wipe the tears off, and taking up a two-handled goblet would pour a libation to the gods, but every time he began again, and the greatest of the Phaiakians would urge him to sing, since they joyed in his stories, Odysseus would cover his head again, and make lamentation. There, shedding tears, he went unnoticed by all the others, but Alkinoos alone understood what he did and noticed, since he was sitting next him and heard him groaning heavily. At once he spoke aloud to the oar-loving Phaiakians: 'Hear me, you leaders of the Phaiakians and men of counsel. By this time we have filled our desire for the equal feasting and for the lyre, which is the companion to the generous feast.'

I give Homer props for adjective use. And if you've always wanted to try a classical epic but aren't sure which one to tackle, pick this one. (The Lattimore translation is excellent - see link.)

Book that is Nearest to my Heart: The Hounds of the Morrigan"But we'd never get it. She'd kill us first.""Kill us?" said Brigit. She looked around wide-eyed at the idea of anyone even thinking such a thing.

The most wonderful book EVER and EVERYONE should read it.

Book that is Second Nearest to my Heart: A Traveller in Time"You know who she is?"I shook my head, not venturing to guess."Her blessed Majesty, Mary Queen of Scotland," said he, "My beloved and sacred queen. One day she will be Queen of England, on her rightful throne, and the true religion will come back, and all will be well on earth as in heaven."

I'm getting a bad feeling about this....

===========================

Isn't it amazing what you can say in four sentences? Especially if you punctuate effectively.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

I have a thing for vampires. Ever since I was a fairly young child I was both drawn to and terrified of them. I remember devouring everything I could find to read about the mythology and mystique of the vampire, then lying in bed in the dark paralysed with fear, repeating in a whisper, "They can't come in unless you invite them." The intimacy of the bite, the thrill of fear, the power of the biter and the powerlessness of the bitten.....all of these things haunted my daydreams - and my nightmares - for years. I suppose it was all part of a young girl's (ahem) awakening, now that I read this paragraph over. (Sorry, Mum. I realise it's possible you'd rather not know that.)

I didn't really notice my vamp obsession until lately, when I was scouring the DVD bins at London Drugs for a copy of Underworld and Underworld Evolution. The movies weren't there, so I stalked over to the Aud-Vid desk and commanded the pimply lackey to order the set. They arrived in short order - four hours of Kate Beckinsale with blue-black hair and fangs. I felt the thrill of victory. I cackled a mad gleeful laugh. Back at home, I lovingly put the DVDs onto the shelf that holds my favourite movies, sat back and read the titles over: Underworld. Underworld Evolution. Buffy the Vampire Slayer Chosen Collection. Angel: the Series. Bram Stoker's Dracula.

Friday, February 15, 2008

I forgot to show you guys the socks I cast on instead of fixing my lace mistake (which is currently in the corner having a time out). I went for the Marina Piccola socks again - hoping to break the Sockapalooooza hex.

This counts towards stash reduction - and frugality, too. I got the yarn from Shelley at Fun Knits, when the Group was over there for the afternoon last year. Judy Maclean, the Sweatermaker dyer, had given several tangled skeins of merino/nylon sock yarn to Shelley. These skeins had apparently become partially unbound in the dyeing process and were a snarled mess. Judy told Shelley that if anybody wanted to go to the trouble of untangling the yarn, they could have it for free.

OF COURSE I took it. I spent two days untangling my skein and winding it into a beautiful, perfectly symmetrical, centre-pull ball. After having given away my first, aqua-coloured pair of Marina Piccolas, I was determined to have some of my own, and these are them. They. Those. here they are.

Again, I'm happy with this pattern: it's easy to memorise. I also like how the colour is knitting up. I'm getting about 10 stitches to the inch, magic-looping on 2.5 mm Addi Turbos.

Oh yeah: and progress on the log cabin afghan. It's now too big to take with me anywhere, so growth has slowed considerably. It's about 4.5 feet across at the moment.

It isn't easy to get good pictures these days, by the way. It's so dark here....I went out to take some garden photos and the camera saw fit to use the flash. Outside. At 10.30 AM.

Anyway, I was poking around looking for signs of spring. And I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but white-tail deer don't like crocus. Or bamboo. And yet?

Exhibit AThere were 100 crocus bulbs in here, evenly distributed and all about 1.5" high. It's hard to tell in this photo, but the deer have pawed (or pulled with their teeth) half the bulbs out and cropped the tops off of the remaining shoots.

Exhibit BMy poor bamboo. THE NERVE. What do they think they are, freakin' pandas?

Luckily, I am a member of a superior race. These opposable thumbs come in really handy for delicate work, and taxidermy requires some dexterity.

One night, while I was in university, my friend Diane and I were walking back to my place from the club where we had gone dancing. She wanted to stop at 7/11 for a cup of coffee, but had a lit cigarette which she wasn't allowed to bring inside. She handed it to me and said "here, hold this". I stood there outside the 7/11 while she bought her coffee at 2.45 AM, holding a lit cigarette like it was a stick of dynamite. I tried to look natural - you know, like it wasn't my FIRST TIME holding a cigarette at the age of 21 - but was fascinated by the ominous death-stick in my fingers. After a few minutes, when I was growing increasingly worried about the glowing red ring creeping ever closer to my hand, a kid about 15 approached and asked if he could bum a cigarette. I looked up in surprise and said automatically, "I don't smoke."

He looked at the cigarette in my hand. Looked up at me. Said "F*ck you, lady."

Monday, February 11, 2008

The first order of business was to write another book review, seeing as how it's been several weeks since I posted one. Now that's done, I need to address some of the comments from last week.

Firstly, Anna, I feel that as far as Lorna's Laces go, beggars shouldn't be choosers. That said, I have only ever tried the Shepherd Sock, and haven't even petted any other types of Lorna's Laces. I do like lace knitting, though, and have heard good things about the Helen's Lace. If you are TRULY SERIOUS about sending me some, I can only thank you happily and dash away furtive tears of joy. I love red, pink, blue, green, grey and purple.

Secondly, yes I belly dance. It's great fun and very affirming from a feminist perspective. It's not easy to get over stage fright, but I wouldn't like to think I had given up an interesting and enriching life experience just because I was worried that people would laugh at me. I've been mocked many times in my life, and have come to the conclusion that people will do it even (maybe especially) if you're fully clothed, sitting in the corner quietly, and trying not to be noticed. So you might as well put body glitter on, don a sparkly costume, slide cymbals on your fingers, and jump up on the stage.

Thirdly, I have been tagged for another meme. I've come to a more mature perspective on memes, and no longer feel that they are necessarily Of The Devil. Therefore, I give you seven more things, courtesy of Annalea, who tagged me. But I will stretch the meme out over the next few posts because I can only think of one, right now. Surely by tomorrow some more will come to me.

1. I have this recurring fantasy where I hide in the library until they lock it for the night, and I spend all night in there drifting through the stacks, lying on the floor reading random bits of random books, and nobody bothers me. It gets dark and maybe it rains (our library has a leaky roof right over the children's section) and I eventually end up in the occult section, freaking myself out with spooky books like you'd find in the Sunnydale High library. Flashes of blinding lightning illuminate the towering stacks like angular, monochromatic gargoyles.

After reading Clara Callan several years ago, I was dead impressed with Richard B Wright. So when I saw this title while browsing shelves in the library, I had to pick it up.

The thing you have to know about Richard B. Wright is, he is a truly Canadian author. This means that not only his subject matter and setting, but his voice, sense of humor, and perspective are keenly northern. As with other Canadian writers, it also means that the picturesque and the ridiculous are mixed in equal parts with the bleak and despairing - just as the protagonist and the antagonist are the same person.

The truth is that I am not a success because I cannot think straight for days on end, bemused as I am by the weird trance of this life and the invisible passage of time.

Wes Wakeham works in a publishing house. He's separated from his wife, and struggles with what he calls the nostalgies - the desire to live in either the past or the future. His dreams of better days incapacitate him. They subvert his ability - even his will - to be a driving force in his own life.

She's a big deep-bosomed woman with a face that should appear in this day and age on packages of frozen pies to attest to their home-baked goodness.

The reflections of the glorious contented past or the glittering champagne-coloured future are portrayed in a strange and specific way - the events of the book are impossible to date. They all occur in the few days just before a Christmas, but the year is never mentioned. At different times I thought it was set in the 1980's, the late 1960's, the 1990's, and the '50s. It's an effective way of temporally displacing the reader in order to manufacture sympathy with -- and, conversely, distance from -- the narrator.

No doubt she's wearing a smart tweedy suit and her long brown hair will be piled neatly under a simple hat. She's probably drawing on leather gloves at this moment and looking a bit like Joanne Woodward in one of those scenes where Joanne is trying to get rid of some creep so she can rush off to meet Paul Newman on the steps of the Natural History Museum.

Wes is a weird dude. He's severely emotionally distant from everyone around him, and has an unnervingly amoral approach to life. He's mild-mannered and apathetic, and sinks himself into fantasy constantly. I was not sure which he most reminded me of - Bartleby the Scrivener or Walter Mitty.

Before retiring I stood in front of the dresser mirror and tried on Bert's Shriner's fez; an elaborate headpiece, royal purple in colour with a silver tassel and a gold crescent moon and three small starts on the front. It came down over my eyes and made me look like some sly rascal from the streets of old Baghdad.

Flashes of the profound come thick and fast in this book. Written in the first person, it is a mild series of observances about the performance of daily life as the narrator sees it pass in front of him. There are many characters that enter and exit the stage before him, and his descriptions of them are hilarious, quick-witted, misguided, sobering.

She looks good today; blonde and sleek and heavy breasted in a starched blouse and a grey skirt which nicely covers her fine big bottom. Mrs. Bruner looks like James Mason's mistress in some movie about the fall of Berlin. I dare say she has climbed an Alp or two in her day wearing those heavy walking boots and short leather pants, singing songs of the Fatherland.

I found myself very often wishing for a change in narrative perspective - searching the pages for insight into the truth about how others actually saw this man.

And so we watch each other, though his look is turning into a glare. He probably thinks I am a homosexual. He doubtless would like to get out of his Chrysler, pull open my door and smash me right in the mouth. Perhaps even give me a kick in the scrotum as I lie on the pavement. I cannot tell the Moustache that all I am doing is searching his face for something to go on; some clue that will help me understand how he does all this without blowing his brains out some Monday morning about ten minutes past seven.

The book is so funny - I started laughing out loud at around page 3, and continued to the last chapter. It won't be universally appealing: I know enough about my taste in books to know that. My mother, for one, would hate this book - primarily because she would hate the narrator, just as she loathed Holden Caulfield. I find myself alternately in sympathy and in exasperation, understanding his perspective on life even as I am wishing he would suck it up and get on with things.

I myself just drift along, hoping that the daily passage will deliver up a few painless diversions. Most of the time, however, I am quietly gritting my teeth and just holding on.

Keep an eye out for Richard B. Wright, if you are the type to appreciate the pain, the numbness, the conflict and the humor of the everyday.

Friday, February 08, 2008

I've been busy with a few things. I'd like to say it was all productive, but in reality I've been drying my eyeballs out staring at the Ravelry forums. Fora. I tell you what - people sure do get worked up. I joined the BID - Big Issues Debate forum - and you could just sit there all day watching the hissy fits. Some of the threads are interesting, many are simply virtual Molotov cocktails that get tossed into an already hot crowd.

But it hasn't all been "Are you in favour of same-sex marriage?" and "I feel Creationism should be taught in public school science classes". I've been doing some ACTUAL things as well.

My friend recently opened a gourmet food store, and she is offering a Middle Eastern cooking class this month. She asked me if I would come and dance at it.

Belly dancing. By myself.

At first I figured I'd decline, but I decided life is short and realistically, any kind of bellydancing looks good to people - objectively, I'll probably get more admiration than derision. So I'm going to go for it. (Ack!)

My daughter took a picture of me practicing.

And I got the loveliest surprise the other day. A USPS priority box from a (mostly) non-commenting, non-blogging Reader, CHOCK FULL of beautiful and yummy things. Look!

See how happy it made my daughters. (Though you can only see one of them in this picture.)

Thank you so much, Anna from Chicago - and to your question (and I quote) "Maybe you'd like some Lorna's Laces? They're from Chicago. Let me know!", an extreme "Will you marry me?"

Monday, February 04, 2008

It probably doesn't look bad to you, but I'll have you know this is my third attempt to fix this mistake. If I can't do it soon, it'll be frog time - and tinking four 370-stitch rounds is a prospect that daunts even me.

I will be spending today on the mending/finishing basket. One day won't cut it.......uh, especially if I stop to blog about it......but at least it's a start. And, if you've ever wondered how exactly you're supposed to patch a pair of jeans, wonder no longer.

You'll need medium or heavyweight fusible interfacing, scrap fabric (preferably the same fibre content as your garment, and pre-shrunk), an iron, pins or Stitch Witchery (fusible adhesive webbing), a sharp needle and thread. Once you have these things around, by the way, you won't need to buy them for a long time. Just get a half meter of both interfacing and quilting cotton - it'll last you quite a while and only cost a few dollars. If you prefer a heavier fabric, such as denim, you can skip the interfacing stage altogether. You can also cut patches out of worn out clothing - choose the less-worn bits, of course.

Fusible interfacing and quilting cotton.

Step One - Create a Patch.

Fuse a section of interfacing onto the back of the fabric, making sure it's on-grain, if you're using a woven interfacing.

Cut out your desired shape from the now-interfaced fabric (I used a sheep cookie cutter and an extra-fine Sharpie).

You can use any shape, keeping in mind that one with lots of points, such as a star, will start to show wear around the edges very quickly.

Now you have a patch - or, I suppose, you could always buy one from a fabric store. But it won't be nearly as interesting or satisfying, I'd wager.

Step Two - Baste the Patch.

You need to hold your patch in place while you sew it on. There are two ways to do this: you can use pins (and caution while sewing) or you can use fusible webbing. My mum calls this stuff "Stitch Witchery", which I think was a brand name back in the day. It comes in a roll from which you can snip off bits of the length you need.

Position the patch where you'd like it, with the Stitch Witchery underneath, completely covered by the patch - you don't want this stuff stuck to the soleplate of your iron.

Fusible web on the bottom - patch on the top.

Press, without steam and for a fairly long time. Use the appropriate setting for the fabric you're patching. The heat has to get right through the double-thickness of the patch, so test it by lifting up on the patch a little bit to see whether it's fused. It doesn't have to be solid as a rock - you're just trying to keep the thing in place while you hand-stitch it.

Fusing the patch to the jeans.

Or you could do it the old-fashioned way.

Step Three - Sew the Patch.

Hand-sewing is getting to be a lost art, as everyone knows. If you're not in the habit of mending, darning, reattaching buttons, and so on, you might have to practice a bit before you really get the hang of it.

For today's patches I used blanket stitch. I like the look of it on this patch fabric.

Working from LEFT to RIGHT, (though I hold my fabric so as to make it TOP to BOTTOM) bring needle out at point A (outer edge). Insert at point B (adjusting spacing as desired - I spaced mine about a millimeter apart), then with thread below the needle, come out at point C directly below. Repeat, noting that point C now becomes point A for the following stitch. Make sure your spaces are even - unless you want them uneven.

Taking the stitch - note thread is below needle tip (also note I did this one right to left - don't let it bring you down).

Drawing the loop smaller.

Pulling the thread tight, ready to take another stitch.

Here are a pair of finished patches on Charlotte's favourite jeans. These hearts had to be a bit on the big side, which brings me to my final note: Patch 'em as soon as they need it. Apparently it's true that a stitch in time saves nine.